Wednesday's Child
by Aerecura
Summary: “Oh, but what does it mean, can you figure it out?” the woman asked her, reaching out a gnarled hand. Bookverse oneshot.


A/N: Hello, and welcome to my first venture into the world of Wicked fanfiction. This is meant to continue the section "Birth of a Witch" from the novel, and also meant to explain my views on the character Yackle. The nursery rhyme I used in this oneshot is called "Monday's Child".

Enjoy!

(insert witty disclaimer of choice here)

* * *

The late afternoon sun, unsettlingly bright after such heavy rains, had just begun to sink below the horizon as the maiden, the fishwife, and the crone topped the last hill before the village. They could see, from their high vantage point, that the rioting crowd of earlier had begun to dissolve and the townsfolk had once again returned to the humdrum routine of daily country life.

"Wish I had been able to see what all that uproar about the dragon-clock was," the fishwife muttered enviously. She took a cloth from her pocket that had once been white, but was now spattered with faded brown stains, and wrapped it around the bleeding stub of the third finger on her left hand. "Just my luck that I had to stay with Her Ladyship and help her deliver that she-devil. What a beast of a child."

"Isn't she?" exclaimed the maiden, sounding more fascinated than horrified. She lowered her voice-more for dramatic effect than secrecy, since there was no one else on the path except the three of them. "Did you see that skin?"

The crone rolled her eyes at the sky. "Honestly. What a question. What do you mean, _did_ we see it? How could we not?"

"Oh, shut up, you old hag," the maiden said irreverently. The crone snorted_._

"Not as old as some," she said, "just look at that one over there." She extended one long, spindly arm to point a finger at an ancient woman wandering in the bushes off the path. "Mad as a hatter, see if she isn't." The woman, scalp vacant of any hair save a few long white strands, was singing softly to herself.

The fishwife pulled a pair of dirty glasses out of a pocket and peered at her. "That's odd. Don't recognize her." She sighed and removed the spectacles. "In any case, we'd better get her back to the village. I bet she hasn't a clue where she is-and look. She's been out all through the rain." Upon closer inspection, it was obvious to the other two that the old woman's thin gray skirts were soaked clean through.

The maiden, ever subtle, hiked up her dress and marched over to the woman, tapping her none-so-gently on the arm. "What're you doing out here, nitwit?" The woman looked up, singing too softly for the maiden to catch the words. The maiden cocked her head. "Well?"

The fishwife shoved her aside and touched the woman's shoulder in a markedly more mild manner. "Hello?" The old biddy looked up, her nearly-colorless eyes eerily reflecting the sunlight.

"Monday's child is full of grace," she half-sang, loud and audible now. Her voice was high-pitched and grated on the ears like a rusty saw. "Tuesday's child is fair of face."

The crone shook her head. "Sweet Lurlina, don't let me become like that in my old age. Come on, let's get you home." The crone tugged on the woman's frayed sleeves in an attempt to get her moving, but she yanked her arm away with surprising alacrity.

"You have to let me finish my rhyme," she singsonged, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. Without waiting for an answer, she began again:

"_Monday's child is full of grace_

_Tuesday's child is fair of face_

_Wednesday's child is full of woe_

_Thursday's child has far to go_

_Friday's child is loving and giving_

_Saturday's child works hard for a living_

_And the child born on the Unnamed day_

_Is bonny and blithe and good and gay."_

"That was lovely, but can we _go_?" the maiden interjected, fidgeting.

"Oh, but what does it _mean_, can you figure it out?" the woman asked her, reaching out a gnarled hand. The maiden flinched back.

"What's today?" the fishwife mused, tapping her chin with one finger.

"Wednesday," said the crone with certainty, "market was this morning."

"Wednesday," echoed the old woman. "Wednesday's child is full of woe."

"Yes, that's right, dear," said the fishwife absently. "Well, that green babe isn't the only one full of woe. I'll be full of woe too if we don't get back soon." She grabbed the old woman's hand firmly. "Come on, dear, let's get home."

The woman wriggled in her grasp like a fish. "Don't want to." Her tone was petty, like a child's. Finally, she pulled her arm away and held it up triumphantly. The crone sucked in a loud breath, eyes widening.

"Look at her palm."

The palm in question, the other two realized, was as unlined as the smooth skin of the baby they had just helped deliver. Although the nails were gnarled and yellowing and the skin on the back of the hand was riddled with stark blue veins like vines choking a tree trunk, the palm looked untouched by the many years it had no doubt weathered.

The maiden shrugged. "What's that to us? What's _she_ to us? I've had enough. I'm leaving." And with that, she marched away down the road.

The crone and the fishwife eyed each other uncertainly, not sure what to do next. Finally, the fishwife held out her hand with the amputated finger. "I can't stay. Else this'll give me lockjaw." The crone nodded and cast a last look at the insane old woman behind.

"And I have to get home. Husband's waiting for supper, no doubt, and I haven't even begun it yet."

The fishwife beckoned her onward, and without hesitation, they stepped onto the road without glancing back, too preoccupied with their own woes to pay any more attention to the old woman off the road.

* * *

As the crone disappeared slowly over the bump of the hill, Mother Yackle allowed a small, humorless chuckle to escape her thin lips. How interesting, that. If she were one of those insipid villagers, she might think that what had just happened was rife with omens and symbolism.

But she wasn't. Nobody knew what she was, not even herself, and she didn't really care if she ever found out or no. She did know, though, that what had happened that day transcended mere symbolism and had become fate.

Fate. That was something else she knew about. Like a weaver, she could expertly manipulate the fine, silky strands that came together to be the tapestry of a human life. That is, except for a select few, and this newborn girl-child was one of them.

So she would have to content herself, she reasoned, by toying with the lives of those around her. A life like this one would become was too vibrant, too radiant to pass by. And if she couldn't control it, she could at least nudge it in the right direction. Wednesday's child indeed; this girl would have more than enough woe in her life, if she had her say.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Yackle turned and ambled off to the Clock of the Time Dragon, still chanting softly under her breath.


End file.
